


The Subspecies' of Rumbelle: Anyelle, Anylace, Anyem

by Of_Princes_and_Savages



Category: Beastmaster, Dead Fish (2005), Once Upon a Time (TV), Operation: Endgame (2010), Ravenous (1999), Stargate Universe, The Tournament (2009), The World Is Not Enough (1999)
Genre: All of the AUs!, Anyelle, Anyem, Anylace?, F/M, Language, These characters have dirty minds too, These characters swear a lot, suggestive content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Princes_and_Savages/pseuds/Of_Princes_and_Savages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of shorts as I test the waters of what dragged me into fanfiction like a riptide. Unrelated unless otherwise marked. Prompt if you have an idea! Please read responsibly! Spay and neuter your pets!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Danny x Lacey: "Can I hide out in your flat?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny lets his pretty neighbor, Lacey, hide out in his apartment from her one-night stands, wishing she thought of him as more than the foul-mouthed weirdo who gives her a hiding place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dub thee Devacey! *whacks with bottle* I dunno if that's a thing, but it is now. My advice on how to write Danny Devine, the Irish strip-club owner from the British film _Dead Fish_ was basically to use the F-word as much as possible. Okay, _swear_ as much as possible. But avoided homophobic/racist no-nos, so I think we're cool.
> 
> Lacey is Lacey...and she has a foul mouth too. 'Nuff said.

The first time he saw her was across the hall from his flat. During the hours when "normal" people went about their lives, he was either asleep or heading out to the Parrot Club, so he must've missed her moving in. That was the only explanation because he sure as fuck noticed her when she was coming home one Friday at the same time as he was.

Mainly because he tripped over her.

" _Fuck_!" Danny grabbed the railing and by the fucking grace of God did not break his neck. "What the fuck?"

"Watch it!" she snapped back, bounding up to her feet to her full, underwhelming height of just under his chin.

"What the fuck are you doing down there? Taking a fucking nap?"

She put her hands on her hips, wearing a little sparkly blue dress that was short at the hem but high in the front, but Danny saw that it was fucking backless save for the crisscrossing straps. Her auburn hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she had a pair of soft, sweet-looking lips that Danny fucking Devine paid absolutely no attention to at all. Nope. Nor her blazing aqua-blue eyes and sooty lashes and full, flushed cheeks.

"I was taking off these!" she held up a pair of the fucking tallest heels Danny had ever seen off of a stripper. "Is that okay with you?"

Danny flung his hands up and walked away. "Fan-fucking-tastic! I'm going to bed now, if you fucking want to fucking shout at me some more, I'll fucking see you in the morning!"

* * *

Ironically, the first time Danny spoke to the girl was the next morning. A package with the opposite flat number arrived at his door-tripping him,-because the fucking delivery boy didn't seem to care which side of the hall he was leaving the package on. (Once, Danny's sticky magazines kept getting put in Mrs. Blackwell's mailbox and she called him a _'perverse, sinful deviant'_ and a _'blasphemous little troll'_ while throwing the accumulated issues at him...which had been a special brand of humiliation.)

So picked up the box and knocked on the door, revealing the girl from last night wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and boy shorts. "Did you want me to shout some more?" she snarked, cocking her hip to the side.

"This is yours," he thrust it at her and she caught it before he accidentally molested her with it. (Shite, that would've been _great_ wouldn't it?) "I fucking tripped over it 'cos the fucking delivery man got the address wrong."

"Oh, thanks," she blinked, deflating a bit. Then she studied him and her lips curled up in a smile. "Are you Danny Devine, by any chance?"

"Aye...how did you fucking know that?" he narrowed his eyes.

The wee bird snorted into her free hand. "Ah, because Mrs. Blackwell accosted me in the hall the other day and said if I was looking for Danny Devine's flat, it was your door."

Danny bounced up on his toes a bit. "Yeah, well, don't fucking take it personal, but the Parrot Club ain't exactly holding auditions. Why don't you tell that old fucking cow _that_ next time you see her?"

She tucked her package under her arm. "The Parrot Club? Like the strip joint? So she thought I was a stripper because of my miniskirt and heels?"

"Aye, she thinks anything above a bird's fucking knees makes her a slut," Danny waved his hands around. "At least she's finally given up trying to fucking evict me like I'm running the club out of my fucking apartment."

The little brunette rolled her pretty blue eyes at that. "Just my luck to move onto the same floor as a puritanical old bat _and_ a strip club owner. Didn't think the club owner would be nicer, ah, so I guess I should apologize for tripping you on the stairs last night?"

"Ah, 's not a big fucking deal," he sniffed, adjusting himself. "Don't worry about it...ah..."

"Lacey, Lacey French," she smirked. "Thanks again for the package Danny. I'll see you around."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Danny nodded, and then blurted out. "Maybe next time I won't fuck everything up by tripping over you."

Lacey laughed as the door closed. She had a pretty laugh, and pretty wasn't a word Danny used very often. Being exposed to silicon-enhanced strippers paid to prance around for entertainment and perhaps the odd hooker would do that to a bloke. Pretty, natural birds like Lacey he didn't know how to handle.

* * *

Especially the first morning, roughly a week after he brought her package over, she met him in the hallway when he was coming back from the club at about four in the morning. She was barefoot, her hair caught up in a sloppy topknot wearing a jacket over what Danny could tell was a little black dress that emphasized little. She gave him a crooked smile that didn't quite meet her nervous eyes and she shifted from foot to foot.

"Ah, look, I know I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I made what I'll call a _really_ drunk mistake tonight and I need somewhere to hide until my one-night stand leaves my apartment. Do you mind?"

"I beg your fucking pardon?" Danny cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in total confusion.

Lacey waved her hand. "Just let me crash on the couch, please? You're the only person I know besides that old cow downstairs and if you say no I'll just be hiding out in the basement by the washing machine."

Danny Devine wasn't a gentleman by any means, but he mainly blamed exhaustion and a complete unwillingness to listen to any more prattle for letting this girl into his apartment that night. He didn't even give it a second thought until about ten in the morning when he walked through wearing nothing but a pair of red flannel pants slung low on his narrow hips and saw her sitting on his countertop eating cereal out a bowl.

He was going to try and sneak back for a shirt maybe when Lacey French smiled at him, makeup-free. She didn't look half bad without the smoky makeup around her bright blue eyes and the red lipstick coating her mouth, actually.

"So I was gonna make you breakfast to say thank you," she pointed with her spoon to a bowl and spoon and the cereal box left out for him. "But all that's in your fridge is milk, butter, condiments, a frozen pizza, a tub of strawberry ice cream, and leftover takeout that was started to get fuzzy."

Danny sat at the bar along the kitchen counter and nodded sleepily. " _Shite_ , uh thanks?"

"I owe you for the escape," she shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

From then on, every week or two, Lacey would usually meet him in the hall when he came back from the club and give him this sheepish smile and some equally sheepish plea to crash on his lumpy couch.

He always let her in, and in the morning he'd stumble out to find her up and breakfast on the counter. It was fucking bizarre that a girl who shagged some dumb prick across the hall in her apartment would spend the morning after making breakfast in his. Bizarre...but nice. Danny started keeping eggs and bread and sausage in the fridge in case Lacey wanted to make something different than cereal. Once he found she'd made French toast and that made him laugh for perhaps longer than he should, but Lacey just stuck her tongue out at him and called him a little nutter.

"A little nutter, am I? That's a fucking laugh, you're no bigger than a wee fucking fairy yourself!"

Danny wasn't sure when he fell for her, exactly, but he did. He was over forty, and madly in love, and didn't stand a fucking snowball's chance in hell against the taller, younger, decidedly better-looking men she was always bringing back to her apartment. At best Lacey thought of him as some odd friend, but more than likely he was just the weird little loser who let her hide in his flat.

Lacey's visits stopped one day, and Danny soon found out why: A tall, handsome young man with dark hair and eyes, and a fucking megawatt smile like he was God's fucking gift to Earth. Danny didn't even know his name and he hated the prick. How did they even...no, Danny didn't care. Maybe Lacey was into fucking giants over a foot taller than she was, hell if he knew. Danny put it out of his mind. He told himself that repeatedly.

* * *

Then one afternoon, Danny was coming from his quest to find a greasy sausage roll to help with a hangover from one too many of the new drinks the Parrot Club was trying out. It was his "day off", as it were. The middle of the week were slow days for business, so he didn't need to show up until later and could leave at a more godly hour than 3 AM.

He was making his way up the stairs, wearing jeans and a t-shirt under his windbreaker (he didn't wear suits all the time,) when he heard shouting on his floor.

Lacey and her wanker of a boyfriend were having a regular domestic in the middle of the hall.

"You dumb bitch!"

"I'm a fucking _smart_ bitch thank you very much!"

"Ha! If you're so smart what'd you get kicked out of uni for?"

"You know damn well I had to leave 'cos my good-for-shit father dipped into my uni fund without telling me!"

"Then maybe you should've given your professor a blowjob like everyone says you did! If you can't use that brain you're always bragging about maybe you should try your mouth! That I know you're good for!"

"Y'know what Greg? You should be happy you showed what a giant arsehole you are before I let you move in. Now there's nothing of yours here for me to _set on fucking fire_!"

Lacey slammed the door shut and the wanker, Greg, shouted, "Then you're a crazy bitch too!" as though he had to get the last word in.

He pushed by Danny in the hall, who would blame his lingering hangover and general confusion for not chewing the man out right then, and stomped down the stairs. Danny was left in an unusual position, of standing in front of a door he'd only knocked on once. Now twice.

Lacey flung it open holding a cricket bat in one hand. "Greg I told you to le-Oh. Danny. I...I didn't recognize you in jeans."

Danny lowered the bat with one hand and waved with the other. "So...what the fuck _just_ happened?"

* * *

Lacey's apartment was...not what he'd been expecting from a "party girl". There were two huge bookcases fucking stuffed with books, and more stacked up on little end tables on either side of her beat-up sofa. There were a few potted plants, and a glass cabinet with little curios like a bronze vase and a blue-and-white tea cup. It looked more like a fucking intellectual's home...but then again, Lacey wasn't very stupid. Maybe she'd been holding out on him?

Danny sat on the sofa, legs spread out with his hands on his knees. Lacey sat beside him, wearing a pink tank top and pajama pants with little cupcakes all over them, Indian-style with her arms crossed as she stared at the blank telly.

"So...how much did you hear?"

"Everything after 'dumb bitch', I s'pose. What...what was the prick going on about?"

"Pfft," Lacey's head fell back. "I just hit my breaking point. I mean, if human beings lived their lives in the bedroom, Greg would be a decent guy. He's just...he's just..."

"A fuck-wit?" Danny supplied, trying to forget that part about the bedroom.

" _Yes_! He's an outrageously old-fashioned fuck-wit! A woman's place is in the home, and all that. He's always talking shit about my unfinished education, the things I wear. I don't think he's ever read a book without pictures in it, and I know for a fact he got through uni on a football scholarship and his father's money. Ugh! I'm going to kill Ruby for setting us up."

Danny sniffed, squirming in his seat. "Hmm. You know, I think this is the first time I've been in your apartment after your man leaves."

Lacey snorted, turning her head towards him with a little smile. "I think that's the first time I've heart you say a sentence without some variation of _'fuck'_ in it."

He was glad he wasn't wearing his tight suit. Hearing Lacey's pretty mouth shape the word "fuck" in a quiet voice was doing things to him he'd rather she not know about. "Mm. Maybe. So...how'd he fuck up?"

"Ugh. He just...he just doesn't understand. I like to go out and have a good time. If I like the guy enough, that includes sex. I'm twenty-five, healthy, and there's nothing wrong with that. But Greg paints me out to be some sort of scarlet woman and-Nevermind."

"No, c'mon, tell me," Danny turned his torso towards her. "You can't fucking leave off like that, what'd the prick do?"

Lacey bit her lip, looking at a pink cupcake on her knee. "Well 'cos I like visiting you, and I joked your flat is like a home across from home-Ugh! He, he said I was cheating on him like the stereotypical _whore_ I dress like, and I snapped. I don't even know why I kept him around this long, really, he's got the personality of a wooden post and he's twice as dense."

Danny pressed his lips together and hummed. "Ah...well...good riddance, I always thought he was a fucking prick anyway. You're making me wish I fucking laid into him on the stairwell now though. I'm something of a fucking expert at dealing with fuck-wits like that loser all day."

Lacey giggled at that, for some reason. "I wish you had too. I hear you on the phone sometimes, yelling at whoever's on the end of the line? I can't ever take you seriously, though, you're too much like an angry little chihuahua. And I've seen how cute you look shuffling around in your pyjamas."

"Cute?" Danny sat up straighter, trying to scowl and failing. "I'm not fucking cute! I look like a fucking zombie in the morning, what the fuck is cute about a zom- _Mrf_?"

Lacey swooped forwards and planted a kiss on Danny's mouth. His brain shorted out to all but her soft lips on his and the irresistible urge to get closer. His lips parted for her questing tongue and they tangled for a moment, before Lacey pulled back and an undignified whimper escaped him.

"Yeah, you're cute," she whispered, looping her arms around his narrow shoulders. " _Very cute_. I uh...I had no idea how you go about expressing your interest to the strip joint owner who's apartment you hide in. I didn't think that, well, I suppose that's irrelevant now, isn't it?"

"Well..." Danny found himself grinning, void of anger entirely and unsure of what to say. So he fell back on an old standby: "Well fuck."

Needless to say, Lacey did not continue to use Danny's flat as a hiding place from one-night stands. And Danny was very much okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...I don't hate this. Some people like to think of Lacey as Belle, but with this bad girl reputation and some bad choices that got her to where she is now. I can go with that. To be honest, I didn't see enough of Lacey to think anything about her past: "Oh poor little Belle is going to be so hungover, and how is she drinking in those heels?"


	2. Renard x Hiero: "Who hired you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hierophant is contracted to kill a Russian anarchist, only things don't go as planned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dub thee Heironard! *whacks with bottle* Hiero is my favorite non-Belle Emilie character, because she's a murderous lil' cupcake. Not that I support murder or anything: But expect heavy swearing and warped religion where Hiero is involved, duh.

Hierophant wasn't sure how she survived the Factory incident, really.

Somehow she'd dragged herself out, bearing the slashes on her back from where that slutty _bitch_ Temperance went at her with some kind of blade. Everybody else was busy killing everybody else, so Hiero must not've encountered any resistance when she broke into one of their ubiquitous black governmental SUVs and drove away. She didn't get too far without crashing, but the doctors all thought she tore her back to shit in the accident and she was allowed to recuperate in relative peace.

Hiero relaxed after the first week (she was there for two and a half,) and no "nurses" tampered with the contents of her IV, or smothered her with her own pillow.

It didn't take long for Hiero to go back to work as a contract-killer. Before the Factory she was something of an accidental-serial-killer, if such a thing existed. But damn it! Some people needed to learn to keep their mouths shut and not talk shit about stuff they didn't understand! And Hiero wasn't even about to start on her issues with that asshole of a first boyfriend. Or her gin-soaked mother who even admitted Hiero was only born 'cause she opened her legs at the wrong time.

She never really meant to kill them, but it seemed to be God's plan for her. And Hiero wouldn't argue with the good Lord.

Hence, her current assignment-Er, job, which involved staking out the penthouse he was staying in. It wasn't the swankiest hotel in New York, but it wasn't cheap either, (nothing was cheap in this city, maybe that's why all the Yankee pricks around her were angry and rude all the time,) and Hiero was rather proud of herself for coming up with the idea of wearing the blue cotton blouse and plain black skirt like the other cleaning women wore to have a "legitimate" reason for wandering around on his floor.

Then, on the third day, late in the afternoon after he brushed by her in the hall towards the elevators, she found that not only had the target left his door unlocked, but he'd also neglected to leave the "Do Not Disturb" sign up, so no one could question why a maid entered the door.

Hiero had a pretty little stiletto blade strapped to her thigh under her skirt, a bit of wire in one apron pocket and a pocketknife with a gold cross in the other. She was as prepared as she ever was for this to be a trap.

The penthouse suite was done up all in leather furniture, the couch alone worth more than the dingy apartment Hiero called home between jobs. (No point crashing somewhere expensive if she couldn't enjoy it.) One wall was almost all window, giving an exquisite view of the famous NYC skyline, while the others bore tasteful pictures and the like. There was a kitchenette with a wet bar and Hiero decided she'd check those out more thoroughly once she'd completed her hit. (She could go for a nice cold ginger ale.) She found her way to the bathroom with a tub big enough for three people and a shower stall with a glass door and an expensive-looking tile on the other four walls.

The bedroom was a quite roomy, with a king-sized bed across from a flat-screen the size of a window, and sturdy, wooden furniture. There weren't many good hiding places in here, even for someone as tiny as Hiero, so she decided to set her trap in the living room. Clean-up would be easier if she nailed him on the shiny hardwood anyway-

She turned to leave when she bumped into the door. No. Not a door, a black-covered chest.

"You know, the last professional man sent to kill me was England's best agent," a quiet voice rumbled from over her head. "Either my stock has gone down that much in the world or you picked the wrong room to steal from, little maid."

Hiero wished she was wearing her beloved heels instead of a pair of black-and-white Keds. For one thing, she needed every inch of height she could get to be taken seriously. For another, she noted looking up, this man was a bit on the short side himself, and heels probably would've brought them eye-to-eye. She put on a sugary-sweet smile, clasping her hands behind her back.

"Who was the last woman sent after you then, darlin'?"

Victor Zovaks, ( _or whatever_ ,) better known as Renard the Anarchist, looked a lot like the dated pictures and blurrier screenshots included in her files. Pale, sharp-faced, with a pinkish scar on the right side of his forehead, and deep, dark brown eyes, the right of which drooped a bit. His hair was buzzed short and he wore the black shirt, leather jacket, and dark jeans he'd left out in, which looked rather fashionable, Hiero would admit, and he certainly filled out the shirt nicely with lean, hard muscle.

Still. She was under contract.

Renard's thin lips twitched up ever-so-slightly in what Hiero assumed was a smile. "You do have the honor of being the first, I must admit."

Hiero palmed her knife from under her skirt. "I'll take that as a compliment Vic."

Quick as a viper she spun the blade around and slashed at his neck. A bit too quick, Hiero cursed herself, as she missed the artery by an inch and the cut was far too shallow to do much more than ooze.

Renard blinked, frowning some, and patted around the vicinity of the cut like he was checking he was bleed. Which seemed ridiculous to Hiero, until he drew his red-tipped fingers back and raised an eyebrow. "You nicked me."

Hiero didn't dwell on it: She pounced.

Unfortunately ( _damn it_ ,) Renard was ready that time. He caught her wrist with the knife in it, but Hiero was rather experienced with bigger opponents. She hooked her leg inside and around Renard's calf and pulled, and fell on top of him as he toppled over like a brick. Renard quickly threw her off, and scrambled for the knife that slipped out of her hand, but Hiero flung herself on top of him and punched him in the face.

They tussled on the floor for a while and Hiero noticed that no matter how hard she hit or scratched him, Renard didn't even blink. It was like he didn't feel anything. For her, that meant he hit pretty damn hard, but he was a little slow, like he was trying to gauge _how_ hard he was hitting.

At least until he flipped them and pinned her wrists above her head, straddling her waist, (he was heavier than he looked,) effectively trapping her.

This was new.

Renard licked at the blood dribbling out the corner of his mouth. That should not have made Hiero squirm the way it did, but she bet Renard was fucking delicious. That little smile came back and he leaned forwards a bit. "You," he began, something amused dancing just under the surface of those dark eyes. "Are a fierce little thing. Quite the professional. Tell me, who sent you to kill me?"

Hiero bit her lower lip, fighting back a smile that was only partly nerves fluttering in her belly. How odd. "He said if I got the chance to tell you, 'How's this for fucking payment due?' Does that ring any bells?"

Renard actually rolled his eyes and muttered something in Russian that Hiero could tell was a curse of some kind. He sat up straighter and tilted his head, regarding her for a long moment.

"He's sent two other hitmen after me, you know. Neither was very good. I would hate to kill you, little maid."

With a sniff, Hiero shifted on the floor so her chest stuck out a bit. "Call me Hierophant, or Hiero if you'd rather."

" _Hiero_..." Oh fuck that was _hot_. "Hmm...it suits you, I must say."

"Well...Renard suits you, too. Clever fella like you? You're a fox alright, I just wanna know why you're name is French."

"You appear to be rather clever for noticing that," he smiled again, a little wider. "Tell me, what was your plan to finish me?"

The little blonde assassin smiled back, genuinely. "Jump you when you came back. No security cameras on this floor, nobody would notice the maid leaving. I'd probably stab you, I like blades."

Renard's hands were large enough to keep her wrists pinned with one while he reached behind he carefully, carefully brushed a stray blonde curl out of her eyes. "Guns are faster. They have silencers."

"Mm...but they're really messy honey. Use the right kinda blade for the job and it's quick and easy."

"That was the plan? To finish me...quick and easy?"

Hiero found herself watching his thin lips form the word ' _finish'_ way too closely. "That was the plan. Now I s'pose you're going to kill me and run," she tied to wriggle her hands free, but Renard had her secure.

The Russian used his free hand to stroke her cheek, as if fascinated with it. He was so very gentle that Hiero wondered if he thought she'd break. "Mm...what would you say to a little deal, Hiero?"

* * *

Hierophant wasn't sure how Renard had survived this long.

A military career, then a mercenary one, then a bullet to the brain, then a torpedo casing in the chest, then a submarine explosion-She nearly cried when Renard confessed he couldn't feel anything. What kind of fucking life was that? Trapped without the ability to touch or feel?

This was after he beat the money he was owed out of the crime lord who had tried paying him with drugs instead of cash and hired Hierophant to get him out the picture.

Lucky her; There was something nice about an anarchist who didn't say she was "fucking nuts" like it was a bad thing. He accepted it like it was how God made her (even the fact that he confessed to not believing much in a god wasn't enough to throw Hiero,) and, in turn, Hiero didn't mind that he could only taste it a little when she kissed him the first time, and had to be careful when he touched her that he didn't hurt her by accident.

God made her good at killing, and God let this happen to Renard for a reason. Maybe she didn't know what it was, but she liked to think it led them to each other, eventually.

However, Hiero also believed that God let doctors practice medicine for a reason, and after a little bribery and a little threatening, Hiero found a surgeon that could remove the bullet in Renard's head that would kill him one of these days.

Renard looked at her for the longest time after she told him. Then he crushed his mouth clumsily against hers and dragged her down on the floor, barely willing to let her come up for air.

"You..." he licked his lips, prompting Hiero to think of how many things they could do down on this floor. "You are a crazy, _crazy_ woman Hierophant. Do not ever change."

Hiero figured that was Renard-ese for _'I love you'_.

Good.

She loved him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Renard-a Russian badass that feels no pain,-was wasted in his move, The World is Not Enough. I ended up feeling kinda sorry for him, because it's sort of like he was doing all this for Elektra's approval (who is a psycho-bitch from hell, btw,) and she just treats him like a loyal puppy. Sad. That man needs a Belle.


	3. Hiero x Ives: Blood, Ink, and Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hierophant x Colonel Ives: Hiero, a tattoo artist, assumes it's one of her stray cats that's gotten into the back of the shop...but it isn't...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the title for this? Hierives? Ivro? If you know please tell me!
> 
> Warning to the uninitiated: Hiero is a violent psycho, and Ives is a cannibal. There will be [lots of] blood and violence, and swears from Hiero. Cupcakes to anyone who who recognizes the cats' names!

The Butterfly Tattoo Parlor was operated by Sarah Pope, a pretty little Southern Belle with soft blond hair, big blue eyes, pouty red lips, and towering heels. She looked like a cross between a Catholic schoolgirl and a stripper, something most guys approved of. It's not that Sarah was necessarily an "easy girl", she was just readily available to a guy that played his cards right between real relationships.

At least, that was the view Hiero knew the people took of her.

It hadn't changed that much since her first boyfriend when she was fifteen: She let him talk her into his parents bed when they were out one night, and suddenly half the football team was on her heels looking to get lucky. Hiero was never sure, really, why guys thought of her as the white trash pick-me-up when they didn't want to actually feel something for a girl to sleep with her. They were happy to have a few weeks of fooling around, but then they moved on. It irritated her to the point that their sweet little Sarah became the real Hierophant, and while it was harder hiding bodies now that she couldn't bury them in the red Georgia clay in the woods, she made it work.

Or she left the mutilated body in an alley and let the cops chock it up to "a robbery gone wrong", like they'd done three out of eight times.

(Number nine had survived as a paraplegic with a rather _severe_ circumcision.)

With Tyler Mason,-nice guy, cute smile, but gave her the old "it's not you, it's me" line after he came up for a promotion,-cut into strategic pieces and scattered around the Northern California area, Hiero decided to give up on guys for a bit and enjoy her alley cats for awhile.

The Butterfly Tattoo Parlor's back entrance led into an alley full of old cardboard, crates, trashcans, and the subsequent trash. There were also two or three cats usually hanging around because of the take-out place across the way. Hiero had started setting out a tray of Purina while she closed up. (She never left the tray out longer than an hour, because back home possums had adored cat food, and their little pink hands had always made Hiero wonder what her Lord's greater plan for those creepy lil' things was.) As a result, the cats were somewhat friendly with Hiero, and she liked them too.

She'd named a few of her "regulars". There was a black and white tom that was so shy it was adorable, and she'd called him Joseph. The yellowish queen she'd named Claire looked like she was going to have kittens any day now, and there was a scrappy thing she'd named Carl who was missing his back leg. Will was always the first to the tray, eating up before the other cats could and then bolting away like a little thief. Hiero's favorite was Nick, a thin brownish tom cat that had a little tear in his right ear. Nick was all aloof in that cat-like way, but had no qualms about crawling into Hiero's lap and demanding a cuddle.

If he weren't so damned good at slipping away unnoticed, Hiero would've taken him home with her...but then again, he was also the sneakiest of her cats. Sneakier than Will, because Nick was always managing to find his way inside the parlor.

Hiero had opened a tattoo parlor because she loved to draw, and had learned to do tattoos in her first stint in juvie when she was seventeen. Another girl showed Hiero how to do them with ballpoint pens, and it wasn't too much different from using a pencil on paper. She'd had some success too, though given the rough side of town she'd opened up on, it was hardly surprising she got so many customers coming in and out with various types of tattoos.

Sleeve tats, flowers on a girl's hip, big mural-like things on their backs, the most awkward thing Hiero had ever done was give a biker's girlfriend an _Anne+Ed_ heart on her left breast. Second most awkward was a tramp-stamp on a man. She closed up a bit late, sometimes, and had to make the block-long walk home in the dark if she weren't careful...but with a scalpel up her sleeve, a switchbl- _Spring-assisted knife_ in her pocket, and the Lord in her heart, Hiero wasn't much afraid.

She was going to have to walk home in the dark tonight, as she'd been late in getting her last customer out the door, so closing up took longer than expected. She left that cat food out, but maybe she forgot to lock the door. It wouldn't be the first time. And Nick, she knew, could open the door, so when she heard a stumbling noise and the door shutting suddenly, Hiero was confident that it was just the cat.

"Nicky, baby, I keep tellin' you," Hiero walked through the curtain into her back room, her hands on the hips of her flared little skirt. "Ya can't just keep breaking in here like-What the fuck?"

A thin young man that was dressed for a nightclub in his skinny jeans and tight black vee-neck, but looked very disheveled, was holding up the baseball bat she kept tucked back here (just in case) and staring at her with wild eyes, brandishing the bat with shaky hands.

If this little prick thought he was going to rob her parlor, he had another thing coming.

"G-g-get back! D-don't move!"

Hiero stomped forwards, pressing her red lips together. "What in the name of the good Lord are you doin'? Gimme the bat before you break somethin' darlin', you're awful cute and I'd hate to ruin your pretty face."

"Shhhh! B-be quiet, quiet!" he whimpered, waving one hand around. "He's out there! He'll hear you!"

Maybe she shouldn't kill him. Maybe he was high on one of those awful drug cocktails that was supposed to run rampant in some of those clubs? Hiero softened her approach, putting a hand on the bat and trying to tug it away from his trembling hands.

"Now I don't know what pink elephant you're thinkin' of, but there's nobody here but you and me. Now gimme back my bat-"

"No! No I need it! He's coming for me, like a wolf stalking a rabbit!" he babbled, yanking it out of Hiero's hand.

Ugh. Well wasn't he just the denim-clad straw to break her camel's back?

It had been a crappy week for Hiero: She'd had to pawn her favorite china cats to cover the rent when her car's radiator crapped out unexpectedly, and she'd heard the drunken sinner that hit and killed the pretty little blue-eyed cat she'd named Belle had survived his "robbery gone wrong" yesterday. A high-as-the-sky burglar she didn't have the patience for tonight.

She sighed, holding up one hand that the young man focused on. "Okay, okay. Keep the bat. I don't need it."

With her other hand she flicked out her scalpel and whipped it up across his throat. He dropped his weapon and stumbled back, eyes bugging out as he clutched the red gash across his throat-deep enough to bleed and hurt but not enough to kill him. _Yet_.

The scent of blood filled Hiero's nostrils and she grinned widely. It had been awhile since she'd killed anyone...almost a month.

It was over too quickly. The fucker tried to run but he stumbled over Nick (who really had broken in, naughty kitty,) and fell, cracking his chin on the tile floor. Hiero pounced on him and slashed his carotid artery, beneath his ear, and in less than another minute he was bled out on the ground between the knees straddling his back.

Too quickly. But satisfying!

Hiero smiled at Nick, who was sitting near the door licking his paw, but looking at her with those curious eyes of his. "Well?" she giggled, licking a smear of blood of her fingers. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"As a matter of fact..."

Hiero almost choked on her blood-stained tongue.

The door ( _open_ , _damn it Nick!_ ) swung open soundlessly, revealing a man behind it. He wasn't very much taller than Hiero in her highest heels, and had some sort of accent. Something faded enough that it was hard to tell, exactly, (Scottish? Irish?) but still noticeable. He wore a navy blue blazer over a pale blue-gray button down, the collar unbuttoned over his lovely collar bones, and black trousers and shiny black shoes. His hair was dark brown and combed back, just a touch longer than Hiero was expecting from a guy, and a trimmed mustache and little goatee that looked ticklish.

What made Hiero the most fascinated about the man were his dark eyes, nearly black, focused entirely on her...and the rather large switchblade in his hand.

Hiero pursed her mouth, licking her lips slowly as she cocked her head. His eyes darkened further, but his expression didn't change. How...interesting.

"Some kinda bloodplay kink?" she purred, toying with the scalpel in her hand.

The man stepped forwards with a low chuckle that sent shivers up Hiero's spine. He extended his free hand, letting his index finger swipe across the red arterial blood coating the sharp little blade. He brought it to his lips and dragged his tongue over it slowly, never removing his eyes from hers. The lids fluttered a bit and the breath caught in his throat when the blood hit his tongue, but Hiero couldn't find anything unusual with that. She licked the blade clean with one more swipe of her own tongue, and then ran it over her lips, settling back on her heels like she lapped up fresh blood in front of strangers all the time.

"I'll take that as a yes," she smirked, and the man chuckled again, crouching down to her level. He was about an arm's length away, and if he reached out to her, Hiero would melt like a snowball in hell.

"Something like that..." he murmured, eyeing the rapidly cooling body beneath her. (As skinny as he was, her victim didn't make an uncomfortable seat.) "You were rather...efficient. Not your first time, I suppose?"

If that _wasn't_ supposed to be an innuendo, then Hiero was in over her head. And liking it. "Well...a girl could do worse things with her time," she shrugged, her blood-red cardigan falling off one shoulder. It was summer, and she'd thought nothing of wearing the little black-striped tank top this morning. Now she congratulated herself when the man's eyes fell directly onto her bared shoulder, and a smirk twitched at his mustache.

"So the sweet little tattoo girl has a dark side," he hummed, tilting his head appraisingly. "What do you do with the bodies, Miss Pope?"

Hiero didn't know how he knew her name. She didn't care either. "Call me Hiero."

" _Hiero_ ," he repeated, in a low, husky voice that was a completely unfair advantage. "Lovely. Call me Ives, if you will."

"Ives," and Hiero wondered if she was imagining the little shudder she thought she saw. "Right. And for the record, I usually just cut 'em up and scatter 'em around. It's a sloppy mistake to leave it all in one place, ya know? I give 'em their last rights though, so I'm not exactly desecrating them or anything..."

The man, Ives, looked amused. "You believe in God, and yet you readily confess to being a murderer?"

"It ain't murder if they were a fuckin' disgrace to humanity," Hiero rolled her big blue eyes. "'Sides, God has a plan for everyone. And his plan for me involves me bein' awful good at killin'. I never hurt a child or an innocent animal, so I'm not ashamed. What's your story then Mr. Ives? You one of them serial killers or somethin'?"

Ives mustache twitched over his grin. "Well not quite...it's a bit of a long story, really. Perhaps it would be best explained with dinner?"

A little bell jangled around Hiero's mind. "Most people say 'over' dinner, darlin'...I'm not about to go walkin' into the crypt of no fucking Nosferatu now."

And her mystery-man actually laughed, getting to his feet and offering her a hand. He was gorgeous, and a gentleman. Maybe Hiero could be more flexible on that last rule, she smiled inwardly, accepting his rough, tan hand and allowing him to pull her up.

"I am _not_ a vampire," he chuckled. "So get whatever vision of sparkling angst-ridden men young ladies seemed so fascinated with these days out of your pretty little head."

"I'm not a fan of Twilight," she smiled wickedly, letting him keep rubbing his thumb against that little spot on the back of her hand that felt pretty damn good. "Too much brooding for my taste. If you're gonna date an immortal monster, you gotta love the monster. Odds are he's way better than whatever pretty face he wears."

Ives licked his lips and stared at her like he might actually drink from her open throat any time now.

"Hiero...have you...ever heard of a Wendigo?"

Not off the top of her head. And for some reason, she knew her initial thought of _'That's a camper, right?'_ was wrong. But it sounded dark...and dangerous...

"Maybe you could explain it to me over that dinner?" she offered, not sure of when they'd started holding each other's hand. She'd stuck her slightly-sticky scalpel back up her sleeve, but that was the extent of her knowledge. How long had she been standing here? Hmm...

_Oh._

Ives bent down and kissed her cheek (his mustache did tickle, pleasantly,) and then nuzzled against her like one of her cats.

"My pleasure..." he murmured. "Help me carry it out?"

For a moment, Hiero was stunned by his little taste of affection. Then she wondered if he meant the take-out place across the street. And then she caught his wicked little grin, and the way his dark eyes darted down at the dead man.

It occurred to Hiero, then, that this was the man her burglar had been raving about.

This man had been hunting down another human...for dinner. Like a cannibal? He was some kind of Hannibal Lecter, then? Hmm. A smart girl would probably take the scalpel back out of her sleeve and stab him in the neck with it. A smart girl would probably run fast, run far, from this devil in tanned, warm flesh...but Hiero never claimed to be a smart girl.

What better match could she hope for? A gentleman that ate people, for a crazy-girl who liked killing them. It was enough to make her rethink her ideas on True fucking Love.

"You gotta car nearby or what?"


	4. MacAvoy x Belle: To serve his Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macelle: Father Joseph MacAvoy, a priest to the Goddess of Knowledge and Enlightenment, considers himself an epic failure, and believes the nightly dreams of his beautiful goddess are drunken delusions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta dig through some notes before I re-post my second Hieronard story! Here's that Macelle I mentioned, but with only implied-smut! Also, Father MacAvoy's a wee bit of an alcoholic. Duh.

Father MacAvoy didn't remember how he wound up lying drunk at the foot of the marble altar to his patron goddess. He couldn't remember why he wanted to be a priest or when he started drinking.

He just knew that as he lay staring up at the cedar rafters, wishing one would fall on him, that it seemed natural to his stupified state that the wooden statue of his goddess should come to life, in color, and kneel beside him.

In reality, the Goddess of Knowledge and Enlightenment probably wouldn't come within a mile of his sorry ass. But Joseph could only congratulate his imagination for the image before him.

She wore a pale blue gown, and chestnut curls piled up on her head. Her lips were full and rosy, and her eyes were the brightest, kindest blue eyes he'd ever seen...

She tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "Why do you drink so much, my Joseph?"

Between her soft touch and her sweetly lilting voice shaping his given name, Joseph very nearly purred.

As it stood, though, with her beautiful eyes so sad, Joseph knew he'd disappointed her.

"I'm a bad priest, goddess, I can't guide people, I can't help them. I'm too clumsy to conduct services properly. I was sent here as a punishment, I know it, no good priest would be sent to this hell."

The imaginary goddess cupped his unshaven cheek in her smooth palm, and Joseph made a small, needy sound he didn't recognize as human.

"Oh no, no," she crooned. "No my Joseph, you're not a bad man at all. You're just lost and unhappy. Did you drink like this when you were happy, when you felt good?"

Joseph tried to shake his head, but it made the world spin painfully. The figment of his imagination smiled kindly down on him, returning to brushing back his hair. Then she kissed her fingertip and pressed it to his sharp cheekbone.

"I didn't think so. See? Now get some rest, my Joseph, well talk again soon. I promise."

Joseph fought against closing his heavy eyes, fought against leaving this beautiful dream and the golden glow of the beautiful goddess...but he woke up on the temple floor all the same. Alone.

* * *

The town Father MacAvoy had been sent to some twenty-five years ago, (a shiny new priest that was as naïve as princess sent to a brothel,) was a port town with three temples. The first, naturally, was dedicated to the God of the Sea, Killian. Lots of men went there to pray for good luck in their voyage, and some women went there too. Some to pray for their loved ones to return home safely, others to service the priests that were about as chaste as dogs in heat in exchange for favors. Nobody minded especially because there were rumors that Killian himself liked it that way.

The second temple, not quite as popular with the men but still highly visited, was dedicated to the Goddess of Vengeance, Regina. Regina personified a powerful woman: Beautiful, regal, and deadly. In a town rife with crime and violence, a goddess who specialized in revenge was a revered deity indeed. A priestess or two may have broken her vows of chastity, but most were rather well-behaved. Just rude, in Joseph's opinion.

And then there was Joseph's temple, the Temple of Belle, a square little cedar building with blue-gray stone floors. There were three rooms in the temple, the largest being the main chamber where people would come to worship the Goddess of Knowledge and Enlightenment. The smallest room was Joseph's dormitory, a little cubby with a bed and writing desk, a chest at the foot of his bed holding his worldly possessions, and a barrel he'd brought in to use as a side table. Usually full of whiskey bottles in various states of full or empty. The third room was so unused Joseph often considered locking it shut after someone went in and stole a tome, but he had no way of knowing how long ago it was.

This was the library, and second to the town records, it was the largest depository of books in town. There were books on every topic available to humankind...but Joseph was the only one that went in there. Sometimes if he weren't too drunk, he would sit on one of the surprisingly comfortable wooden chairs and read. Mostly he just dusted the unused shelves and kept it clean. Today he'd even bothered with scrubbing the floors and beating the dust out the threadbare rug. If he was going to be a disappointment to his patron goddess, Joseph would rather it be for his own shortcomings rather than his failure to keep her space. He didn't hate the temple-the constant smell of cedar wood and the parchment scent of books was something he associated with comfort,-but...but it was just so fucking hard to care sometimes.

His dream last night prompted Joseph to catch up on a few neglected duties, though. He dusted off the statue of Belle, and caught himself think she was much smaller in person before remembering it was only a dream. Gods he was pathetic.

Joseph set himself up at one of the tables in the library, skimming over a volume about the gods. He knew most of the material by heart: From the disastrous first love of the Wolf Goddess to the oft-forgotten tale of Killian's attempt to harm Belle. Both of them.

As a child, Joseph had adored tales of Belle. Most boys wanted to be like the stronger, more male gods, but Joseph had always been fascinated by the idea that he-a small, reedy thing,-could make his own way in the world the way the little goddess did. Oh, he was mocked often for it, but for once, Joseph didn't care. He wanted to be helpful and smart and do good things like Belle. She was half-human too, the daughter of the God of Agriculture and a learned noblewoman, and that made Joseph like he even more. He could identify with her longing for freedom, for her delight in new adventures, and her dislike of people constantly trying to fit her into a neat box.

That was why he was a priest: Because his mother wanted him to be one.

Joseph didn't remember falling asleep over the desk...but he must have, because the next thing he knew, Belle was sitting on the table, (wearing a white gown with a gauzy blue shawl,) and smiling at him.

"Hi."

"Uh...L-lady Belle..."

"Just Belle, please," she giggled, brushing his sleep tousled hair out of his bleary eyes. "You're not drunk tonight. I'm glad. Don't you feel better when you're sober?"

Joseph shrugged. He was smart enough to have a grasp of withdrawal-that one got worse before they got better,-and since he was weak it was another reason Joseph drank all the time. "I don't know, L-Er, Belle?"

His goddess giggled again. "Would you quit though?"

Joseph blinked owlishly. He would. He really would. He wanted to go back to being a good priest, a good man, one that didn't dishonor his clever goddess with his alcoholism. One that could feel proud about himself. But how he hell was he supposed to go that when he could hardly roll out of bed some mornings?

Then Belle, his brilliant (if imaginary) visitor, gave his hand a squeeze. Her hands were soft and warm and so small Joseph was afraid he'd hurt her if he squeezed back. "What if I help you, would you like that, my Joseph?"

He'd help a woman hide a dead body if she looked at him like he was worth something with her bright blue eyes, the kindest of smiles tugging at her plump pink lips. He didn't dare open his mouth to answer because he might say something terribly stupid, so Joseph just nodded.

Belle's smile grew so bright he should, by rights, go blind.

"Good!"

When Joseph woke up, he was flopped over his desk with a bad headache. It was different from the ache of a hangover, this one was a reminder that he hadn't taken a drink in nearly ten hours. Oddly enough...dream or not...Joseph didn't feel inclined to take a pull from the flask in his robes.

Yet.

* * *

Night came.

Earlier, when he was still strong, Joseph had poured out the whiskey and gotten rid of the bottles. Now he hurt and craved and lay on his back trembling, staring up at the rafters of his crappy little room, wondering why the hell he was trying to please a figment of his lonely imagination. Why couldn't he just get up, throw on his black robe, and shuffle down to a tavern like he's done a hundred times before? Why did he even imagine a goddess trying to help him back on his feet? Why couldn't his imagination just conjure up some loose-morale woman to tempt him further into shame?

Joseph wasn't sure when he fell into a fevered sleep, but his dream-self felt just as terrible as his wake-self, only with Belle perched on the edge of his bed, holding his hand again. That didn't feel too terrible...

But he hurt all over and his head was abso-fucking-lutely splitting, he shook and he sweat and he couldn't tell when he was reality from nightmare anymore. Belle set his head on her soft lap, brought him water or something simple to eat, and curled around him when he lay whimpering and pathetic. Sometimes he wished he could go out and just drain a whole bottle of whiskey...other times he wouldn't trade drunken bliss for the bliss of Belle's imaginary arms twined around him...

Joseph wasn't sure how long he lay abed. Not that anybody would miss him, of course. But after an indeterminate amount of time, Joseph found that he didn't feel quite so terrible while he was conscious anymore. He got up and lit candles on the altar, even managing to sweep up a little. He sent up a truly grateful prayer to his goddess, even if he'd only imagined her. Joseph liked to think he hadn't disappointed Belle in the upkeep of her temple...maybe she'd sent him those comforting dreams?

The nightmares, though.

The nightmares were the worst. Red-eyed demons and snarling monsters, sharp claws and snapping fangs, the fires of hell and the smothering darkness. Joseph knew he was reduced to an ugly, sobbing, filthy mess. He couldn't remember when the last time he bathed or changed robes was...

With that in mind, Joseph made himself a crude sandwich from a bit of meat and two slices of bread. It felt good to eat something solid. Then he took a bath in a wooden tub he kept for such occasions, scrubbing his lank hair and skinny body clean for the first time in weeks, before he fell into bed. As it turns out, he didn't have a clean robe to change into. He would have to do laundry in the morning. It was occasions like this that Joseph was rather glad he lived alone; Nobody was there to mind if he slept naked or not.

Maybe Belle was pleased that he was trying to get himself straightened out. He didn't have a nightmare. Instead, his imaginary goddess lied down on top of the sheets next to him, giving him a beautiful smile he was hopeless enamored by. Belle pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and his bones melted.

"You look good tonight Joseph," she giggled, reaching out to brush a lock of damp hair out of his eyes. "How do you feel?"

Joseph melted into her touch. He didn't care if he was dreaming anymore...he didn't care if he was mad either...he leaned forwards to kiss the tip of Belle's nose. And he grinned at the surprised little part to her plush lips and the becoming flush to her cheeks.

"I feel better now that you're here, my goddess."

His illusion smiled shyly, peering at him through her long lashes. "You can call me Belle, my Joseph. Please."

"Belle..." Joseph hummed, laying his hand in the gap between them, palm up in invitation. "Beautiful Belle..."

She giggled, placing her hand over his. She was so warm and soft and perfect, lacing their fingers together with a charming little giggle. "You are a flatterer, my Joseph."

Joseph propped himself up on one elbow so he could look down at the pretty picture Belle made lying on his bed. Her chestnut curls made his pillows look more comfortable than they were. The summer-sky blue of her dress shimmered in the weak starlight spilling through the small window, her skin pale as cream and her lips red as a rose. She reached up to thread her fingers at the nape of his neck, drawing a little moan from Joseph. He'd never known how sensitive he was there.

Belle guided him down, her lips hovering so close beneath his he could almost taste them. "Joseph..." her voice sounded small, unsure. "Would...if you had known me, if you weren't a priest-I mean...I mean, would you want to be with me? A-as a woman, not the goddess?"

Joseph licked his lips. "I'd beg you to be my wife and treat you like a goddess whether you really were one or not-Mm!"

Soft, honey-sweet lips pressed into his and Joseph's eyes rolled up, words forgotten.

Belle was easily the most delicious thing Joseph had ever tasted. Her clever little tongue passed between his lips and stroked the roof his mouth, spreading her flavor further into his senses. Belle rolled them so that she was curled up on his chest, pressing another long kiss to his lips. And that second kiss, and her slight weight pressing down on him, that gave Joseph the shock of his life: Belle was really in his bed.

And apparently eager to ravish him.

"Oh..." Joseph swallowed thickly, completely paralyzed as he looked up at his all-too-real goddess now. "O-oh my g-"

Belle's ever-present smile faltered a touch. "Sweetheart? What's the matter?"

She was asking him what was the matter? When he was the one-When she was the one in his bed, and he was naked under the sheets? Joseph twisted his hips away from Belle before she noticed just what was the matter with him _and_ his weak, pathetic flesh, his head swimming.

"Y-you're really Belle..." he said stupidly. "Y-you're real. A goddess. What-Why are you-Why aren't you repulsed by me? Disappointed?"

Belle made a soft, sympathetic noise and curled her hand around the nape of his neck again. Joseph didn't claim to be a strong man; he melted with her touch all over again.

"No, oh, no sweetheart, no, not at all," she soothed, shaking her head. "Why would you think that?"

"I-I'm a drunk-"

"Not anymore, are you?"

"I-" Oh yeah. "Well I'm still a bad priest, I'm a bad man Bel-Er, Godd-"

"Call me Belle, please," the goddess insisted. "And if you want me to go, then I will. But you, Joseph, are the kindest, most loving man in this town of hate and violence. You are not a bad man. You made plenty of mistakes, I know, but you tried so hard too. I'm so proud that you gave up drinking, you did that!"

Joseph stared into fathomless blue eyes. "I thought you were a dream..."

Belle giggled, pressing a sweetly chaste kiss against his cheek. "I am not. How would I need to prove this to you, sweetheart?"

Licking his dry lips, Joseph shook his head so hard he was dizzy. "No, no, I believe you, I believe you Belle...I-I just...I only wished that you were a dream, because...because it was so much easier than saying I had fallen in love with a real goddess."

Pressing her lips together, Belle sat up on her knees. "And..." she tucked a chestnut curl behind her ear. "Is that a bad thing?"

Joseph heard a peculiar noise, and realized it was himself laughing.

"I can honestly say," he flopped down on his back, spreading his hands. "That I don't believe there's any rules about priests fraternizing with their patron goddesses. So I suppose not...ah...I-if you'd have me, that is."

Judging from how Belle pressed him deeper into the pillows with a hot, wet kiss...she would have him.

And Joseph gladly let his goddess lead him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's got a Tumblr account! I do! It's nothing to write home about yet, I'm still trying to figure things out, so if you have tips I wouldn't mind. I'll take prompts from either here or there now, sooo...c'mon! Hit me!


	5. Renard x Hiero pt. 2: "Feel."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renard finds himself out of his depth with a fierce little blonde assassin, and Hiero sets out to make him feel without his sense of touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deleted the first part two of my Hieronard ship. So here it is again.

Looking back, Renard honestly couldn't remember why he cared for Elektra King.

From a purely male stand point she was perfect: Dark, sleek, graceful, elegant, a brilliant, shining mind. Renard felt blessed when she chose to be with him, and he wasn't so proud to admit he was desperate to please her.

Hence the bullet in his brain and one submarine explosion he still wasn't sure how he survived.

Somebody found him washed up on the shore and brought him to a hospital. Renard did some pondering then and realized he was a means to an end for Elektra. Little more than an eager puppy desperate for her affection, for some semblance of closeness, he let himself help her destroy the world. God he was a pathetic.

But not stupid. Renard knew Bond thought he was dead. (Hell, _he_ even knew he should be dead.) So, Renard kept to small jobs after he was released from the hospital. Arms deals, smaller mercenary work. Anarchy was easy on a small scale, it turns out.

And then, nearly a decade later, Renard found a little kitten had stumbled into the lion's den.

Really there was no better way to describe the tiny woman dressed as a maid in his hotel room. She was smaller than he was, so practically five-zero, all short blonde curls and big blue eyes, with a light blue button-down tucked into the top of her simple black skirt, and a clean white apron tied around her waist. She smiled at him with bright red lips like a sweet kitten--and then her claws came out.

Renard wound up fighting her on the floor until he had her pinned. He couldn't feel them, but he was certain this fierce little creature had gotten a few good licks in. He bit his cheek at some point, because he could taste iron in his mouth. He knew she'd scratched his neck with that little stiletto she'd had tucked under her skirt somewhere. And Renard would be lying if he said he wasn't curious to see if she had extras anywhere...

But business before pleasure.

Not that the little blonde seemed to care. She was quite content to squirm and arch under him, her pupils wide and dark in her crystal blue eyes. Hiero. She had an usual name, Renard would admit. That was a Tarot card of some sort, he couldn't remember what it was exactly. But further speculation was cut short when she answered, quite candidly, who sent her to kill him. Fucking Gonzales, fuckwit of a crime lord down in southern California. He made his money in drugs; And didn't seem to understand that Renard wanted his seven million in cash, not cocaine. Renard had all but held a gun to his head trying to procure payment, but Gonzales just sent three hitmen.

Well, two hitmen _and_ one hitwoman.

Well he _sent_ two hitmen.

Hiero invited herself on his trip to San Diego, sitting primly in the seat next to his sipping from a soda can as red as her lips. She wore a red boat-neck sweater with white polka-dots, little black skirt and fishnet stockings with a garter belt. (Renard knew about the garter belt because the way she was sitting shifted the flimsy skirt up and he could see it. He didn't think girls wore garters outside of porn or a bedroom setting.)

When he asked why she was there, Hiero just licked her blood-red lips. "It's real simple, y'know?" she drawled. "Like, if you can't get your money, what the hell is he gonna pay me with?"

There was a certain logic to her statement. Plus, getting to Gonzales' home base and punching him in the face while his new partner sliced one bodyguards throat with a scalpel and bashed the other one's head against the ground, Renard could say it was also very entertaining. (He may have also gotten another peek at those garters.)

However that didn't explain why Hiero was skipping beside him (how she managed to skip in four-inch heels was impressive honestly,) to the hotel he was staying at. She was had licked her scalpel clean of blood before sticking it back up her sleeve, and Renard had very studiously pretended not to watch. Then again, he wasn't an entirely sane man, was he? It would make sense to learn he suddenly had a bloodplay kink he never knew about. With Elektra it had usually been enough to please him if she wore next to nothing (or nothing) and acted like she was pleased by his clumsy caresses and rough hands...

Hiero was right at his side, talking about how if she were one of those Real Housewives (whatever that was) she'd just set fire to the bushes of her bitchy neighbors until they got the message not to fuck with her. It was a view that Renard could respect, if you showed what you could do if someone didn't back off, they usually did just that. Something was making the arm on Hiero's side tug oddly, not that he could feel sensation, but Renard was dimly aware of when his body was moving against his will or if something was pressing against him.

He realized, looking down and coming to a halt, to find Hiero was holding his hand.

She gave him a confused smile when he did that. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Would you, um, do you want me to-" she went to pull away and Renard squeezed her hand. Maybe a little too tight, but he didn't want her to slip away.

"No, you are fine." He said, looking at her. With the heels on, she was almost as tall as him. His mouth was level with her eyebrows, so he let himself lean forward and press his nose against her forehead, wondering if her pale blonde bangs would tickle.

She smelled like toasted sugar and vanilla, and he wondered what she tasted like. Hiero let him know, actually.

She leaned up a bit and pressed a sweet kiss to his mouth, so he pressed his tongue against her lips until they parted for him. Hiero tasted like...mint, and sugar, and a tang of blood Renard couldn't really imagine Hiero without. He watched her closed eyelids flutter, sooty lashes fanning her cheeks as she tilted her head to the left, obviously deepening the kiss. She looked blissful and Renard envied her ability to feel. He imagined she was soft as a petal, warm, and her little hands would run over his chest or wrap around his neck lovingly. It was a nice fantasy, shame.

Hiero pulled back, that happy look creasing with confusion. "Renard? What's wrong?"

Renard frowned back. "Nothing."

"So why are you just sorta standing there like a statue with your arms around me?" Hiero cocked her head, and she did look just like a puzzled kitten. "You one of those guys who don't like PDA or-"

"What? No, I liked kissing you very much," Renard said. Maybe a little too quickly. But damn it, it was the truth. "I just can't...enjoy it like you."

That confused-kitten look did not fade in the least.

Well it could be that Gonzales didn't tell her everything about him. Come to think of it, the first hitman shrieked something in Turkish that sounded a lot like he was calling Renard a demon when he pulled the knife out his shoulder blade and tossed it aside. Maybe Gonzales missed the most important detail: "There is a bullet in my head," Renard motioned to the scar above his eye. "I can't feel anything. No pain, no pleasure, not the heat or the cold. Nothing."

Before "nothing" came all the way out, Hiero pressed another hard kiss against his lips, then wrapped herself around him and held him tight.

"Oh baby, I'm so sorry, that's fuckin' awful," she whimpered against his throat. "I'm so sorry..."

Renard wasn't entirely sure what to do. Questions he expected. Perhaps even a half-attempt at seduction. Instead he had a tiny blonde assassin squeezing him like he'd lost a loved one and offering him sympathetic condolences. He put his arms around her and that drew another little whimper, and the anarchist was completely lost.

* * *

Renard had a mansion in the Russian mountains he crashed at in between international jobs. Somehow he wound up taking Hiero back there after she spent most of their evening in San Diego curled around him on the sofa watching a program called American Idol that seemed to consist of men and women of mediocre talent singing, sometimes quite badly, and being critiqued by a panel of judges that used to be relevant musicians or were semi-relevant professionals.

He fell asleep when some girl who's mother had died sang some soul ballad, (or was it who's father had been in the military? No, it was the one that kept talking about what a big opportunity it was to be here, but they all sounded alike to him,) but Hiero didn't seem to mind.

"You didn't snore, so that's alright," she promised, kissing the corner of his mouth.

When she saw the mansion, Hiero kept calling it a castle. This was probably because it was large and made of brick and stone. She put her bags in a room, but halfway through the first night she came into his. She completely ignored how he sprang up in bed with his gun pointed at her on instinct, and the little blonde-dressed in a floppy red sweatshirt and pajama bottoms decorated with some sort of yellow cartoon bear, and a pair of fuzzy pink socks,-crawled under the covers and pressed into his side.

"You're castle's fuckin' freezin'."

That was all she said, or rather growled, before promptly going back to sleep.

And Renard couldn't say he minded.

Hiero was a lot like keeping a cat, actually. If she was warm she was content to sit anywhere, and Renard had found her once curled up on a sofa napping in a beam of sunlight. She liked to cuddle up to him if he wasn't occupied, often throwing in a few of her sweet-tasting kisses. Once she'd been drinking red wine and Renard thought me might've gotten drink just off the taste of her. Hiero liked to come and go as she pleased, and Renard didn't mind this. Part of him always expected her to never return, but instead she always came back in her puffy parka with the fuzzy hood and red snow boots, and at one point Renard gave her the security code to get in if he wasn't home.

That was another thing: When Hiero started to come back, Renard started thinking of his hideout as "home".

And he felt, if not happy, then at peace for the first time in decades. Renard was aware that Hiero had a laundry list of issues, she even cheerfully admitted that her first kill had been the boyfriend that talked her into giving him a blowjob and then told everyone at school what a good little whore she was. Her second and third kills had been her parents after they (quite literally) beat her over the head with a bible in some kind of hope that she'd be a pure little girl again. Hiero did believe in her God, of course, she said grace whenever she ate a meal and always said her prayers and if it was warm enough she slept in nothing but her little gold cross pendant. Her belief in God was that he'd made everything happen for a reason, like making her so good at killing to off the rapists and the murderers and the "fuckin' annoying" people in the world.

Renard's religious philosophy was quite simple: He didn't really believe in God, but he didn't not believe either. He was quite neutral on the whole subject. He felt comfortable and wouldn't ask Hiero to stop trying to convert her targets while they were just gasping for their last breaths, and she didn't ask him to change either.

Psychologists would probably say that he and Hiero were both entirely unhealthy people, but as a whole, Renard felt pretty good. Hiero didn't need him to do anything dramatic and she didn't abuse her power over him, (except to buy a few space heaters, but that seemed fair,) and that on it's own was worth more than sanity.

One night Hiero crawled into bed while Renard was reading a book. She removed the novel from his hands and set it aside, and before Renard could protest he noticed Hiero was wearing one of his black t-shirts and a pair of sheer lacy boyshorts. Reading seemed very uninteresting suddenly.

Hiero settled herself on his lap and tugged his shirt over his head. Then, with a very business-like tone, she kissed his forehead and said, "Do I turn you on darlin'?"

Renard would've thought she'd consider his stupefied silence a resounding "Yes", but for clarity, he replied, "Explain?"

Hiero wiggled on his lap and looked down at her fingers as she traced the litany of scars covering his pale skin. There knife wounds here, bullet holes there, a burn or two that he wished he'd been immune to pain to get, and one bite mark that had a rather interesting story for another time. Renard liked to watch Hiero touch him, how her red nails scratched lightly over his ribs and danced in circles around places that once would've had him moaning and straining and oh-so deliciously tormented.

"I mean, when I do this, an' this," she bent down and licked a faded pink line under his right collarbone while pressing on his left nipple. "Don't you get all hard and desperate?"

Desperate, yes. Hard? He couldn't tell. Elektra had simply monopolized his hands and eager mouth for herself, and they both assumed he couldn't, um, perform without a sense of feeling anymore. He really had to stop comparing little Hiero to Elektra, it was extremely unfair in Hiero's favor.

"I'm just curious is all," his little kitten purred directly in his ear. "It's not fair that I get all bothered by you're big hands and your broad shoulders and your big brown eyes, and that goddamn accent, and have to have fun all by myself while you can't do the same. Poor darlin', lemme take care of you. I'll be good, I promise."

She giggled at that and a laugh escaped Renard as well. Hiero was not "a good girl", but Renard couldn't imagine her being that way anyhow. Hiero whispered a few more naughty words in his ear before Renard turned and caught her mouth, and Hiero hummed. She'd learned to keep her baby blue eyes open when they kissed, not that Renard ever told her he did. She figured it out on her own that he desperately needed to see what she was feeling, and those gorgeous crystal blue eyes of hers with their dark lashes were the most alluring, most powerful weapon she had.

He could taste her tongue and hear her soft little noises, watching her eyelids grow heavy without closing all the way. She did blink a few times and it only made Renard more desperate when she reopened her eyes, until he became aware of his head spinning. At first he wanted to believe it was a need for air, but when Hiero pulled back it didn't help much.

The mystery was solved by another giggle and a kiss too quick to register before Hiero was wiggling on his lap again, tugging off her own shirt. Renard gawked for a moment before she was busily managing his belt and flys.

"There you are," she cooed. "Look at you, all excited."

Renard looked down at the obscene tent in his boxers. Hmm. Well, what do you know?

Without further reflection, he tackled Hiero onto her back in bed and began to show her just how excited her really was...

After about a year and some from the first day they met, Renard accidentally met up with Hiero in the Mediterranean while they were both working separate jobs. They ended up going back to her hotel room after a few messy kisses, but Hiero stopped him before he could rip her blouse open. Not for lack of interest, because her pupils were blown and she seemed as reluctant as he was about it, but then she said she had something important to tell him.

"So, y'know how you're always s'posed to die at any minute?" Hiero bit her lip, lightly stroking his scar. About four months back, when he finally told her about it, Hiero had actually cried and punched him in the chest when he tried to say he had accepted it long ago and stormed out, and for six scary weeks Renard thought she through with him. Then she came back and scolded him like he was in the wrong for accepting his fate and kissed him senseless.

"Yes..." Renard nodded, not quite following.

Hiero squeezed his big rough hands in her soft little ones, beaming up at him. "You don't have to. I, ah, called in a favor from a doctor in France who says he can take it out. I mean, like, risk and all aside, would-"

Renard wasn't quite listening anymore.

Hiero had accepted that he couldn't feel anything but loved him anyway, with soft kisses and warm hugs and drowsy evenings under the covers that sometimes didn't even go beyond canoodling like teenagers. She didn't want him to destroy the world, she wanted him to live in it. And she wanted him to live, that's why she found a doctor (and undoubtedly threatened him within an inch of his fucking life,) to take out the damned piece of metal inching him close and closer to the end.

Holy fuck.

He loved her.

Renard launched forwards and somehow they wound up sprawled on the hotel floor locked in a messy kiss. "Don't....do not ever change," he gasped, looking at Hiero like she'd given him the world. Well she had, hadn't she?

Hiero cupped his face in her hands-he couldn't wait to feel that,-and pulled him down for another kiss. Maybe he didn't actually say the words, but Hiero seemed to understand.

She could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a suggestion, prompt, or request down below, or at my spiffy new Tumblr page. (I'm of-princes-and-savages there!) The only Carlyles I declare off limits are Hitler, King James, Begbie, and that other Russian with the human trafficking. I'm more open to De Ravins, though less learned. Hit me up yo!


	6. Spinner!Rumpelstiltskin x Curupira: The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the spinner Rumpelstiltskin tries to flee the Ogre Wars with his son, he encounters a peculiar little woman with funny feet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rush won't cooperate (difficult floofy bastard,) so the first RC to get a Curupira is Spinner!Rumple. This is a decidedly G-rated story to tell the kids, but if you get inspired by it take it and run wild!
> 
> Curupira is a forest demoness that's mistress of all the beasties. She resembles a baby Emilie de Ravin with blonde hair and a Caucasian face, but her ears and below her chin is all green and her feet are backwards. She's also a BAMF cupcake and the only BeastMaster character worth watching. :)

Rumpelstiltskin was always aware that someday his son would leave him in the future. But that was different: He'd be grown up, leave to seek his fortune, a wife, have children of his own. And, if the spinner were lucky, Baelfire would be close enough to visit often and not completely forget about his papa.

But never had Rumpelstiltskin thought he'd lose his son to war: Dragged off by soldiers and sent unprepared, inadequately armed and barely trained, to be trampled under the feet of Ogres.

**_Thirteen!_ **

He would only be thirteen, the age of conscription had dropped again. They must have killed off all the fifteen-year-olds already.

Hodor, that great lump of a jackass in shiny armor parading around as a knight, caught them before they could escape. Of course he did. Rumpelstiltskin wasn't sure what star he was born under, but clearly it was a misfortunate one.

And poor, dear, brave Baelfire announced his age and birthday and...shit!

The shreds of pride that were as threadbare as the rest of his clothes stung Rumpelstiltskin from how that man had humiliated him, made him kiss his filthy boot.

No, he didn't "make him". Rumpelstiltskin was just a coward afraid of the consequences.

Perhaps that's what stung the most...

The spinner limped home with his son by his side, both quiet in the dead-silent woods. No words were spoken because there was nothing left to say. Bae undoubtedly had questions about Milah now, and his father's cowardice. But he said nothing.

Rumpelstiltskin was glad because he didn't know what to say either.

And then...

The spinner wasn't sure how long the small hooded figure had walked on the other side of him. But he only noticed when it said: "Well?"

Rumpelstiltskin and Bae nearly knocked each other over stumbling away. In hindsight it was rather embarrassing because the figure was barely as tall as Bae, hidden under a rough homespun cloak that looked remarkably like the butcher Rory's. The hood was drawn up so that all you could see was the nose, mouth, and chin of a pale female with full peachy-pink lips that curled up in a sly grin.

And Rumpelstiltskin prayed to god that it wasn't the Dark One creeping up on him at night...

"Well?" she repeated with an unfamiliar accent. "What are you going to do? Scurry home to away the inevitable?"

"Who are you?" Bae blurted, peering from around the arm his father threw up to shield him.

The little female smiled again. "Well what I am is curious as to why you're running away from, well, running away I suppose."

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed. "What else can be done?"

The little female rocked up on her toes. No, rocked back on her heels. No-Yes-Rumpelstiltskin's eyes widened as he noticed her feet were backwards at her ankles, heels facing him. Oh. Well that explains a lot, but the first thing out of his mouth was: "Why did you steal Rory's cloak?"

A soft giggle escaped the female as she brushed the hood back. A tiny blonde girl with soft blonde hair pulled back, mottled green skin around her pretty white face, looked at him with blue eyes that glittered with mischief. "Well he shouldn't have lost it in the wash. You know who I am then?"

Bae's eyes bugged out at the pretty and backwards white feet while Rumpelstiltskin nodded weakly. "C-curupira, the Forest Demon."

"And," she held up a finger. "The mistress of the beasts. I could talk to the Ogres, get them to turn back. Or maybe just decimate the Duke like they want and leave. What would you do for my favor, then?"

Rumpelstiltskin licked his suddenly-dry lips. "I would do anything so long as my son isn't endangered."

Curupira bit her plump lower lip. "Okay."

Okay.

Okay?

What was okay? "Okay...what, m'lady?" Rumpelstiltskin ventured, tacking on "m'lady" last-second so as not to be impolite. But how did one address a forest demon?

Curupira waved her little hand. "You have, sheep, don't you? I want one. I'll take one sheep of your choice after I drive the Ogres back. Is that a deal?"

Bae asked, "How?"

His son was bright, Rumpelstiltskin thought at the back of his mind, wondering the same thing himself.

But Curupira just shrugged. "I'm the mistress of all beasts. Ogres are firmly in that category. Not the worst creatures in the world, mind you, but just not very smart. I'll handle it. Now is it a deal or not, spinner?"

What could he say?

"Deal, Rumpelstiltskin agreed with a  nod of his head.

* * *

It was laughable easy for Curupira to make her way to the Ogre camps and systematically turn them back. The Ogres, for the most part, were trying to get to the Duke and crush him for killing a half dozen of their young. Ogres were very dull creatures, but with long memories and a simplistic code of honor: He killed our children in cold blood, we must kill him.

It was admirable determination but Curupira managed to sway them from continuing. She clearly and honestly promised to handle the Duke in her own way and the Ogres began marching back to the mountains. Sometimes the demoness wondered if humans knew Ogres lived in settlements in the mountains and only came down to hunt for meat. Probably not, and then they learned the hard way another fact about Ogres: They held grudges for years. Hence why this travesty had continued for fifteen years now.

With the last Ogre encampment packed up, Curupira decided, on a whim, to inform the spinner about her success. Plus, she had to recover that sheep in payment. The wolves to the North were hungry, and a sheep might not be much but her favorite wolf pack would appreciate it greatly...

Rumpelstiltskin.

Curupira would sometimes overhear travelers on secluded roads or wandering through the woods. Sometimes they would bemoan the fact that they were lost, sometimes they would simply be gossiping. She heard a bit of gossip about "the man who ran" and had seen him from afar more than once, tending to his tiny flock of sheep over the years. He was unusually quiet for a human, shy, but clever. He reminded her dearly of a fox, a timid little creature with a bad reputation. Some of her foxes liked to crawl into her lap to be cuddled, but Curupira thought that the spinner might not be so inclined...

And she wondered why that thought was so saddening.

It was just before sunrise when the demoness made it to the edge of the woods, and she sprinted to the ramshackle cottage as she heard the sound of a scuffle. The knights of the Duke were trying to drag the spinner's son (so much like him, but younger and braver than his father,) and Rumpelstiltskin had already been knocked on the ground. He was curled in a ball with the tallest knight laughing at him.

The knight kicked the spinner while he lay there and Curupira saw red.

Suddenly she was in front of the knight, and she scowled at him. She saw the moment the knight thought she was some oddly dressed little girl, and then the next moment when he saw her feet and put two and two together.

"The Ogre War is over and if you don't release that boy," she spoke darkly. "I will have your horses throw you off the minute you ride out and they will enjoy trampling you."

(They would, too, Curupira could hear the lead knight's stallion begging to be allowed.)

Another knight, lightly armored, undoubtedly a messenger, came thundering up just then, his mare breathing hard. The messenger shouted at the top of his lungs, very nearly falling off his horse as he dismounted, "Captain Hodor! Captain! News from the frontlines sir! The Ogres have retreated back to the mountains! The war is off! You are to report back to the Duke and the draft is over!"

Young Baelfire slipped free of the knights and their slackened grips, dashing to his father and helping him up. Rumpelstiltskin clutched tightly to his son, splitting his attention between him and Curupira, looking at her with wide, wondering brown eyes.

The forest demoness smiled at the knight, who gaped at her like she had just appeared in front of him. Then he stumbled away as if she were poisonous and amidst the growing murmur of people creeping out into the sunlight, unsure if what the messenger shouted was true, the knights leapt back on their horses and rode out.

Rumpelstiltskin looked at the forest demoness as she watched the knights leave. Bae had handed him his staff and grinned widely, "It's really over, isn't it Papa?"

The spinner nodded, ruffling his son's hair. "Yes, yes it is Bae. Go bring one of our sheep around here, would you?"

Bae obeyed, and Rumpelstiltskin nervously glanced at Curupira. He gingerly nudged her arm with a  brush of his fingers, and her too-blue eyes turned on him. His nerve nearly deserted him, but then he forced out, "I owe you a sheep, m'lady."

Curupira slowly smiled. "You do."

"My son is fetching one now. Ah, th-thank you, thank you for...for so much. I don't think I could ever truly repay you."

Curupira bit her lips, studying the spinner from head to toe. And then she smiled just a little more shyly. "Well...perhaps we'll meet again. Maybe you can repay me then..."

And suddenly the idea of the future didn't seem so terrifying to Rumpelstiltskin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered I can't right G-rated fluff very well. It doesn't agree with my muse...
> 
> So! I've got WAY too many ideas and if one of you could give me a swift kick in the writing-pants, I'd appreciate it. Would you rather see next: Nosty x Lacey, Claire x Lachlan, Hieronard post-bullet, gangster!Gold x hitwoman!Hiero, beast!Rush x Curupira, or Ally Craig x Frank Keane? I'm serious, someone has to help me choose which one to do next, because I wanna do them all, but can't chose one on which to focus.


	7. Gold x Hiero: Who is the boss?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold is name feared in the criminal underworld, a ruthless dealmaker backed up by a contract killer that is cute, giggly, and fucking nuts...but which is in charge?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we call this anyway? Anyrum? Well, I dub this pairing Hierold *whacks with a bottle* and let's get the warnings out the way:
> 
> Gold's a crime lord, Hiero's his hit-girlfriend. Obviously, if this were on TV, this chapter would be rated "mature content".

The scene in the office of crime lord Richard Gold wasn't altogether unexpected. Dark furniture, muted lighting, burgundy walls that gave the whole décor a flair of old fashioned elegance. Behind the massive, imposing walnut desk, in a large leather office chair, sat Mr. Gold himself, in an inky black, his graying hair brushing his collar.

The men, and women, who came in to do business with Gold, who dabbled in everything legal and illegal and made a fortune from it, would expect nothing less from him. Some people compared him to the Godfather, others were simply content to get away in one piece with whatever deal Gold cut them. All of them agreed Mr. Gold was not a man to be trifled with. He was the sort of man you mess with once, and you end up wrapped in plastic and stuffed in a dumpster. His men were incorruptibly loyal to him through a strange combination of healthy paychecks and honest respect. If they retired, their slates were wiped clean for the cost of their eternal silence. Only one man had dared to cross Gold, Hordor, and he wound up with a broken neck and eleven stab wounds in a pool of his own blood.

You didn't fuck with Gold.

In fact, only the brave few souls would dare to take their eyes off Gold to notice he wasn't always alone in his office. If they noticed the flash of red, they would find Hierophant lounging on the leather sofa, curled up in the armchair, leaning against the bookshelves, or, sometimes, sitting on the edge of Gold's desk. People noticed her then: It was hard to miss the little blonde who looked like an old-fashioned pin-up girl with her red lips and big blue eyes.

Hierophant was almost as legendary as Gold in the crime world. She was young, but she'd gotten started young. She'd come to work for Gold three years ago and broke arms and legs (slit throats, cracked skulls...) on anybody he ordered a hit on. Only Gold and his chief of security, The Dove, were more feared.

Having Hierophant sit on his desk, sketching butterflies on a notepad or playing with the heavy bronze letter opener, tended to make people very, very nervous. So nervous that most people let Gold get the lion's share of their deal so they could escape with their lives.

Gold was the boss, and Hierophant was his deadly pet.

_So they thought..._

* * *

As soon as the door closed to his apartment and he stood there locking the door, little arms wrapped around his waist and there was a soft nip at the nape of his neck that sent shivers down his spine.

"You tired tonight baby?" Hiero cooed, her little hands tracing up to his stiff shoulders.

Tired, yes. But not in the way that needed sleep.

Apparently Hiero was of the same mind, because she tugged him over to the big armchair and sat him down, coaxing him out of his jacket and shoes. He whimpered as sharp little nails ghosted over his thin dress shirt, fingertips pressing into this knotted shoulders and rubbing down just so. Lips brushed his cheek and whispered, "Poor baby, all tied up in knots. Let's loosen you up a little, hmm? First this."

One hand still kneaded his shoulders while the other plucked his tie loose. But she didn't take it off, just unbuttoned the shirt until it was open and came around to push it down his arms, settling on his lap to continue massaging. Gold's head fell back with a soft moan. Suddenly sharp nails dug into his skin and Hiero's mouth crushed against his. Spots swam before his eyes when Hiero pulled back and he realized she'd tightened his tie around his throat. Then she loosed his tie again and grinned smugly, reaching down to squeeze him through his trousers.

Gold bit back a yelp.

"Oh," Hiero giggled. "Somebody is excited. If you said something sooner, baby, I woulda gone down on you at the office. Maybe when that lil' rat Smee was dronin' on an' on about that ne'er-do-well boss of his. Hmm? Would you have liked that?"

"F-fuck..."

"Yeah," Hiero sniggered again, giving him another little squeeze. "You'd like that a lot. Naughty boy."

"H-hiero...p-please..."

Richard Gold was the fucking king of the underworld. People fell at his feet to be ground under his heel and turned to dust. He took charge just by striding into the room so strongly you hardly noticed his limp or cane.

But in Hiero's hands, he was reduced to a pleading, trembling mess.

And he _loved_ it.

Hiero bent down, placing a gentle bite to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Gold's only firm rule was no marks that would show, but since he was invariably dressed in a suit, that left Hiero with a very large canvas. Her second bite was firmer, combined with a little scratch of her nails down his chest, nicking his taut brown nipples. Gold's every reaction was precious to her, the smother groans and startled yelps. It was a yelp she got as she pinched at one nipple and scraped her teeth over the other. She loved those.

Another precious noise, the weak mewls he made when she wasn't being firm enough, was her reward for ghosting her fingers down to his belt buckle and pulling it free. Once she had him pulled out, thick and leaking like he'd been hard for hours (and maybe he was, those trousers were stiff and it had been a while since they'd played, poor thing was so excited,) she kissed that cute little bump on the tip of his crooked nose.

Gold tilted his head up quickly and kissed her hungrily, and Hiero giggled into his lips. "You are so eager! C'mon baby," she tugged on his tie until he was on his feet, trousers falling around his ankles. "Let's get you to bed..."

Without his cane, Gold had to lean on her a bit, but that was fine. Hiero held his improvised leash and led him along with sipping kisses until they were in his bedroom, and she pushed him down on the mattress. The flushed head of his cock jutted straight up and Hiero licked her lips. He twitched before her very eyes and she couldn't help but laugh again as she unbuttoned her blouse and shimmied out of her skirt.

Gold groaned, pressing his hands over his face. "You weren't wearing anything under your skirt all day?"

" _Wellll_..." Hiero crawled on top of him. "You didn't ask."

"If I'd asked, I'd have spent my entire work day with my head under your skirt."

"I know. Aren't you sorry you didn't ask?" she teased, taking him in hand and squeezing. Gold's hips snapped up fruitlessly until Hiero took pity, pressing the tip of him against her entrance.

"Ooooh...'s prob'ly for the best anyway. I'd've just rode you in your chair all day..." Hiero moaned, letting her head fall back. She teased herself for a little longer, knowing Gold was just lying there waiting for her. He knew better than to rush her. He was such a good boy, really, despite his well-earned reputation as a monster.

Her sweet little monster that howled beautifully when she sank down on him at long last.

Hiero _loved_ teasing Gold to the brink of insanity, but she wasn't a completely cruel mistress. She curled her nails into Gold's smooth, heaving chest, and bent down enough to press kisses everywhere but on his gasping mouth as she set a slow, maddening pace. Eventually Gold whimpered, reaching up squeezing her hips. He didn't try to speed her up, he just liked to touch. He liked touch. Rough touch made him excited but soft touches made him melt. Sinking down and grinding her hips in circles while she put an impressive hickey on his neck and stroked his twitching belly was just the thing to have his hips buck up agitatedly.

Hiero bit her lip to keep from laughing a loud, picking up the pace because as fun as it was marking her little monster as her own, it would be really, really nice to come too. Gold's hands squeezed her tightly as his head pressed back, face going slack as she rode him harder and his back bowing. She hummed contently, slipping a hand down to her slippery little nub to give it a hard pinch. She was wound up as much as Gold and that was all it really took to have stars burst behind her eyelids. She slumped down on top of Gold and gave his shoulder a sharp bite that triggered his own release.

When his quivering stopped, Hiero wrapped around him like an affectionate blanket. A noise similar to a purr rumbled from deep inside Gold, and he grasped weakly for the actual blankets to wrap around them. While Hiero had never explicitly stated that she would come first, Gold was something of a gentleman. Her gentleman.

Hiero wriggled up and kissed Gold's forehead, petting his hair off his sticky forehead.

"All better?"

"Mmmm..." he hummed drowsily, utterly boneless underneath her. A good orgasm always made her monster weak as a kitten, which is why Hiero liked to make him come as often as he could manage it. It was cute.

"All better." Hiero gave a decisive nod, cuddling up to the terror of the criminal world.

Richard Gold may have held the entire Northeast in the palm of his hands, and the power to wipe his enemies off the face of the map...but Hiero was not his pet.

He was _hers_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits to MintIceTea for this idea! She's got her own Anyelle + Others series, and one of them is Hiero x Rumpelstiltskin in all three forms: Spinner, Dark One, and Mr. Gold. So I blame you, MintIceTea, for THIS. :)
> 
> Note: I took down my Curupira X beast!Rush chapter because-upon learning that fanfic plagiarism is an issue at the moment,-I checked with Bad Faery, who would rather I not use beast!Rush specifically. Fortunately I think I can rework it just fine and this time they'll be able to use words like people, ha-ha! That'll come back up soon, until then, happy reading!


	8. Belle x Nosty: The Merfolk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is a very curious mermaid, especially curious about a shipwreck everyone says to stay away from...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nosty swears a lot, but this is more of a meet-cute than anything. I think? Can you call a Nostelle first encounter a meet-cute?

Humans never really thought about merfolk watching them. They did, and frequently at that. A merperson could tell where another had lived during their formative years by how they spoke. Until a they were about ten or twelve, they lived closer to human settlements, until they were strong enough to swim in the strong currents of the deep sea. Like salmon, only far less suicidal, merfolk usually bred where they'd been born. In Belle's case, she had lived close to Australia. Her father was afraid and hateful of humankind, but her mother had been as curious at Belle was and told her much.

Even after they went to the deep sea settlements to live, Belle was still curious. She liked to explore the shipwrecks and examine the objects that fell to the seafloor. There was one big shipwreck nearby that Belle desperately wanted to explore, but her father had forbid it.

"That's no place for good mermaids," he said sternly, holding Belle by the shoulders. "I don't like you playing with human things to start with, but that is an especially dangerous place. Far too dangerous for you. Do you understand?"

She didn't, but she didn't admit that out loud, either.

Ariel was the only mermaid that shared Belle's passion for exploration, but even she balked at the shipwreck. Unlike Papa, though, she had a reason: "There are sharks there Belle, big, hungry, scary sharks! Some people say that the sharks kidnapped mermaids and there are monster mer-shark-people there, too! I don't want to be attacked by either one of those things, do you?"

One thing Belle noticed about these instances was that people only _"said"_ that there _"might be"_ and _"could be"._ Nobody knew for certain. And that made Belle even more curious than the shipwreck...

So one day she snuck off to see it for herself.

Belle had a plan. Of course she did, she was very sensible. The ship had gone down many years ago and landed on the sea floor, a big hole blown in one side. There were some rock formations on the floor, and Belle was going to hide behind one and scout out the area. If there were sharks, or mer-shark-people, then Belle would leave at the first sign of trouble.

The sun was weak on this part of the seafloor. It was dark, and Belle was starting to think this was a bad idea when she saw movement over at the wreck. It didn't look like sharks...but they didn't act like merfolk either. Belle darted to a closer set of rocks to get a better look and saw they were mostly young mermen...and none of them looked very friendly.

The settlement Belle had lived in since they left Australia was a very nice place. A bit crowded here and there, but it was nice. Belle and her father lived in one of the rooms of a coral structure where several families lived, and her father harvested kelp, which Belle helped with. She'd heard that not everyone had it as well as they did, and Belle was aware that there were troublemakers in any settlement. These must have been some of them, she figured.

Some of them were rough-housing as they came out of the hole in the ship. Some of them were laughing loud enough to hear from behind the rocks, and making rude sort of jokes. Belle realized that it wasn't sharks of mer-shark-people, it was them that lived here. Not-very-friendly merfolk, perhaps even unsafe company for a small mermaid like her.

Well why hadn't someone just said that in the first place instead of trying to scare her?

Belle, disappointed, turned to leave when she bumped into a thin, scarred chest.

Oh.

Belle was small, she knew that. Her tail was barely eight feet long, just lengthier than a child's tail, and while it was a pretty iridescent shade of turquoise, she was still about as intimidating as a guppy. A boorish merman named Keith had chased after her until the settlement's guards had thrown him out. And it wasn't until that moment that Belle feared Keith had come to live here, and that what if this merman was the same?

The merman was younger than she was expecting, maybe as young as her. His dark hair was long and tangled in ropes, and his eyes were dark and his sharp face bore a wolfish smirk. He was thin as a rail, with scars all over his pale skin, and his tail was maybe a foot longer than Belle's, deep red with a darker pattern, silver scars marring the scales and a rip in one of his fins. He should have been scary...but Belle wasn't very frightened.

He eyed her from head to fin, almost theatrically, and drifted back as he grinned.

"Well, well, well, what have we caught here? A pretty little lass swum too far from home, eh?" he singsonged, folding his arms behind his back.

"You're Scottish," Belle blurted.

The merman paused, giving Belle a look like he couldn't make up his mind. "Aye. So?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just, y'know, never met a Scottish mermaid before," she shrugged, twining her fingers in front of her. "So...how do you do?"

If he couldn't make up his mind before, he looked just plain flummoxed now.

"You're a strange wee bird, aren't you?"

Belle tilted her head to the side. "I have been called odd before, yes. Is 'bird' slang in Scotland for female?"

He blinked at her.

"Alright then, bird," he said, drifting to the side and putting a hand on her shoulder, giving her a slight push away from the shipwreck and the rough-looking mermen. "Go home, off you now. It's a great big ocean, I'm sure you could find some place better to be odd."

Belle opened her mouth to ask for his name again, but then thought better of it. For one thing, he was sending her home before the other mermen saw her. And for another, she supposed she was pushing her luck at this moment. She started off, but paused and swam back, reaching for his hand and giving it a shake.

"My name is Belle, thank you, and goodbye," she smiled, swishing around and darting away through the ocean.

* * *

Nosty had spent most of his childhood after his ma took off scavenging around waters outside of the shipyards in Scotland. That was where most of the orphaned merfolk ended up, all fighting over scraps. Nosty was always one of the smallest, but he fought like a ravenous shark. Some of the many scars he'd collected were earned because he wasn't fast enough, others were more eccentric.

Once he established the fact that he was fucking mental, nobody wanted to fuck with him. A broken bottle in his chest here, a slash there. His reputation was secure among the sea-scum in this part of the ocean.

Nosty ruled through a combination of that reputation, and a bit of brains. Brains were a rarity amongst his lot, most of them were sheep or dullards who could bite or hit harder than anyone else. But with a bit of brains, Nosty, the wee fucker from the shipyards, could dazzle his minions like a magician. Wits and insanity? That was a winning combination where he lived.

It wasn't perfect, but nothing was, and it was the life Nosty was comfortable with, if you could call it comfort...

They guards of the nearest settlement were well-acquainted with Nosty. They chased them out of town and kept a sharp eye open for them, but Nosty and his boys could always find a way back in to pinch this or that. Their home base of sorts was an old shipwreck, blasted off the top of the ocean during a human war ages ago. He'd never had a high opinion of humans himself, they killed what they felt threatened by and feared what they didn't understand.

Not too unlike the well-off merbastards in that settlement.

However...then there was this little bird.

Belle, she said her name was. Insisted, as she shook his hand. Nobody shook hands with Nosty.

But she did.

She was a fucking gorgeous wee bird at that. Nosty was small, but she was tiny. All petite and soft, from the loose billowing curls of her auburn hair to her creamy skin. There was a band of woven sea grass over her perky breasts, decorated with little shells and pretty things. Her tail was only eight feet long, an iridescent thing that shimmered royal blue, with golden webbing at her rounded fins. Her hand had been warm and satin-soft, and her pink lips formed a merry smile as her blue eyes sparkled.

Fuck but her eyes had been blue.

Not that Nosty had ever had an encounter with many posh mermaids in his life...but he knew Belle was different. She shook his hand and wanted to chat like they were mates on the street rather than two strangers-him a dodgy stranger at that,-on the darkened sea floor with his boys just beyond the rocks. His boys weren't housebroken. They would do all manner of things to take that lovely shine out of Belle's blue eyes, and Nosty had to send her back to her home. He was a bastard, but he wasn't that sort of monster.

Rubbing his hands together, rough as opposed to Belle's wee hand, Nosty wondered if that mermaid would come back here.

She really shouldn't...

...but he wondered what he'd do if she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where to take this, so if anybody out there wants a mer-Nostelle fic, run with it!


	9. Hiero x Renard pt. 3: "Ask me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Hieronard bit takes place between the first and seconds parts, if anybody's keeping track. Prompted by Minticetea: “Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

“Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Renard had just found his boxers, ( _how the fuck had they gotten under the dresser_?) and put them on when a sleepy Southern drawl all but moaned the question out.

Hiero was sitting up when he turned around, wrapped in his dark blue bed sheets that made her skin look pale as cream and highlighted the shocking blue of her big eyes. The way she was wearing his bedclothes was a touch ridiculous because lord knows she had no modesty to preserve, and he was considering ripping it away before the meaning of her question hit him.

“And what is that?” Renard asked.

He knew what she meant, of course. The only reason he hadn’t asked it last night when he came back, after a long and tedious arms deal only to find Hiero lying atop his bed in a black babydoll dress with red ruffles, (so sheer he knew there was _nothing_ underneath it but skin,) his mouth had better things to do than speak.

Well, that was a  reason, but not the only reason. The main reason was because if he asked, she would answer. And if she answered, whatever she answered, the idea of labelling whatever this was quite frankly made Renard consider pretending his hearing was just forfeit to the bullet in his brain so they never spoke of it again.

But his little Hiero was having none of it.

She smirked and somehow managed rolling out of bed still wrapped in sheets, looking unfairly sexy with mussed blonde curls as she planted herself in front of him.

She tapped the end of his nose and said, “You’re thinking it now, I can see it in your pretty brown eyes. Just ask me and I’ll tell you.”

“What if I don’t ask?”

“Oh, I’ll still tell you, but I’m rather upset you were just gonna leave so you don’t get an incentive to stay.”

Even without a sense of feeling, Renard was only a man, and faced with Hiero letting the sheets slip to the floor? He was a weak man. A very weak man. But his tongue still wouldn’t form the question properly.

_‘Why do you keep coming back?’_

_‘What do you see in me?’_

_‘How long are you going to stay with me?’_

“ _Why_?” he asked, and that was as good as he could choke it out.

He was never sure why Elektra stayed, though now he suspected it was his willingness to please her. He put thoughts of Elektra back in that little box, not wanting them to encroach on this moment with a better woman, and Hiero took his unfeeling hands in her little ones, rising up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Her eyes were open. Beautiful, blue, and open. Renard couldn’t look away if he tried.

“Because…” she smiled, a small, real smile to match the peculiar emotion in her eyes. “I like you. I really, really like you, darlin’.”

Then, Hiero kissed him again, and Renard scooped her up in his arms, walking them back to bed. Getting dressed and facing the day could wait, he couldn’t be missing that much.

But this? He didn’t want to miss a moment with Hiero.


End file.
